If I were a writer, how I would enjoy being told the novel is dead. How liberating to work in the margins, outside a central perception. You are the ghoul of literature. Lovely.

If you know you're worth nothing, only a gamble with death can gratify your vanity.

The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future.

I would never write in response to what I believe the public wanted or needed.

These are the days after. Everything now is measured by after.

He speaks in your voice, American, and there's a shine in his eye that's halfway hopeful.

Insanity's so personal. It's hard to know who shares our secrets.